


Her Majesty's Secret Service

by Peckishdragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bondlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peckishdragon/pseuds/Peckishdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people just want to watch the world burn. </p>
<p>Sherlock and John are sucked into the intrigue of MI6, while the youngest Holmes brother is named Quartermaster, against all the odds. Q fights to gain the trust of a resurrected 00 agent in time to save the world, or at least a small piece of Britain. </p>
<p>Mycroft just wants his meddlesome brothers out of his hair, so he can rule Britain in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

221B Baker Street had been quiet lately, too quiet for John's taste. Quiet meant Sherlock was doing something decidedly not good. Discordant twangs of the violin, disruptive gunfire and smoking were signs of boredom. Silence was a red flag for a danger night. John put away the shopping, before filling up the kettle. Tea may not pull Sherlock out of his funk, but it would at least make the conversation a bit more civilized. Hopefully. Sherlock rarely cared about social constructs, especially things like proper decorum. 

It was one of the things that John liked best about his flatmate. Sherlock told it like it was, not bothering with the polite lies of society. 

John balanced two cups of tea as he left the sometimes kitchen and full time laboratory. Sherlock was perched on the sofa like a large cat, his fingers templed under his chin. His ever changing eyes were closed, depriving John of his scalpel sharp gaze. 

Perhaps it wasn't a danger night after all. Maybe Sherlock was using the quiet to organize his mind palace once more. With a smile for his silent flatmate, John set Sherlock's tea on the table beside him, ruffled his dark curls and sat down with his laptop. He still had their last case to type up for his blog. John turned the telly on the news channel, keeping the volume low, as not to bother Sherlock. 

With another fond smile for his flatmate, John dove into writing about the locked room murder Sherlock so cleverly solved. Even after a year, John found Sherlock brilliant, even if he had no clue about social cues, or the cycles of the moon. 

 

Sherlock came out of his meditation slowly. His mind palace was once again in clear, working order. No longer littered with the useless minutia that cluttered it up. With a content sigh, Sherlock opened his eyes and unstapled his fingers. It may have been minutes or hours since he started the defragmentation of his mind palace, it was always a process. As he stretched, his fingers brushed against a cooling cup of tea. 

John. 

Baffling John, with his intricate social niceties. Predictable only in his unpredictability. Both an open book and one mystery Sherlock had yet to solve. Sherlock hoped to never solve the mystery of John. Life would be terribly boring if that happened. 

John who was currently asleep in what had quickly become his chair, his laptop precariously balanced on his knees. No doubt the doctor fell asleep while writing yet another over-the-top recount of their latest case. Sherlock grumbled under his breath. Undoubtedly John's blog would get another thousand hits. More than his undeniably brilliant site got in a year. 

People were baffling in their stupidity. 

Not John though. John saw, though he didn't often see, but he always tried. That was more than the idiots at the Met, more than most people. 

Something on the news playing quietly in the background dragged his attention away from John. Fire and death. MI6 was burning. Something was building up in his throat, it felt like panic. Panic was not something that Sherlock was accustomed to feeling. 

In his mind palace, Sherlock associated panic with John, wrapped in explosives, and the smell of chlorine.

This was something else. 

With each case Sherlock took, he saw what drove people to commit atrocities. There was always a reason. Greed. Lust. Hate. And love, the worst of them all. It had taken him years to realize that there are just some people who wanted to watch the world burn. 

Kleio was in Vauxhall Cross, which was burning. 

Sherlock's phone rang. “Is he okay?” The consulting detective barked into the phone, startling John awake. 

“We've not been able to reach him,” Mycroft did not bother beating around the bush. “Q branch is in chaos, the Quartermaster is dead.” 

“Mycroft, you are the British Government. Are you telling me that you can't figure out where our brother is?” Sherlock's fingers twitched against his dressing gown, he needed a bloody fag. 

“If you think you can do better, why don't you come down here and look for him yourself,” Mycroft snapped, at his wit's end. 

“I'll be there as soon as I can. Mycroft, you had best get me clearance.” 

“And John I presume.” 

“Obviously.” 

 

John woke to Vauxhall Cross burning on the telly and Sherlock barking into his phone. It must have been important, because Sherlock never talked when he could text instead. The tension rolling off his flatmate made him snap to attention. Something big was going on. Something a bit not good, if Sherlock's manic pacing was anything to go by. 

John sat up and listened to Sherlock's half of the conversation, only taking in bits and pieces of it. He snorted softly at the revelation that the Holmes brothers had multiplied. The two of them were the ultimate secret keepers. 

Just when he thought he knew Sherlock, something else would pop up and knock John off his stride. The doctor was slipping on his shoes, when Sherlock's ever changing eyes snapped to him. 

“We have to get to Vauxhall Cross,” Sherlock threw his phone on the settee. 

“Alright,” John answered mildly. “You might want to put some clothes on first.” 

Sherlock glanced down at his pajamas, a look of pure exasperation on his face. “Five minutes.” 

Sherlock was back within two minutes, immaculately dressed. “Bring your doctor bag,” Sherlock stated starkly. “You'll be needed.” 

John nodded and followed Sherlock from the flat, not terribly surprised to see one of Mycroft's cars waiting patiently out front. 

He had walked in a war zone. John had followed Sherlock into hell. And yet, this felt like the biggest case of their lives. Definitely dangerous. As his shoulder brushed against Sherlock's, he couldn't think of another place he would rather be.


	2. Chapter Two

Kleio woke up choking on hot smoke, the smell of acrid burning making him want to throw up. It was a mixture of computer components overheating and seared flesh. The young computer programer rolled over and began to dry heave, violently. He could see sparks and flames coming from the walls, and bodies littering the floor in front of him. The bodies of his coworkers and friends. 

He crawled over to Mary and Stu, who were the closest to him. Mary was dead, but Stu's heart was still beating. Kleio could feel it under his hand. He tried to take stock of the rest of the room. Lin was stirring from across the room, her long black hair matted with blood. Q Branch's newest intern looked as disoriented as Kleio felt. 

He couldn't feel the cuts and bruises that littered his body. Kleio knew it was due to adrenaline. The fuzzy ringing in his ears was a bit worrisome, but he didn't have time to dwell on the discomfort. He had to figure out what was happening, and how to fix it. 

He remembered sitting in Q Branch, having his midday cup of Earl Grey. MI6 had been a rather subdued place since 007's death. Everybody was under fire, although only M was under investigation. Bond had been well known in Q Branch. Incapable of bring back tech in one piece, if he brought it back at all. He had been the worst of the Double 0 agents, the bane of Q Branch. A sophisticated man, with excellent taste, hidden within a brute's body. Kleio had had a bit of crush on the agent, truth be known, not that Bond had ever noticed his existence. The night he had died, Kleio had mourned the man with a bottle of scotch. 

There had been an explosion that had rocked Vauxhall Cross to it's foundation. Kleio could remember the feel of concrete under his hands and knees, the sweet smell of Earl Grey soaking into his trousers. Something within Q Branch exploding, so close it felt like Kleio's ears had exploded with it. Smoke and fire filling the room, as Q Branch went into automatic lock down. Then falling into darkness. 

Kleio struggled to his feet, unable to find his balance without clinging to the worktable. He clung to it, as he made his way slowly to one of the many fire extinguishers that littered Q Branch. Normally, the explosions that happened here were a bit more controlled, but they were prepared. Unless he could get the fires out and the smoke cleared, they wouldn't survive until somebody could break into the locked down room. 

Vents firsts. If he couldn't breath, he would never get the fires out. Kleio struggled to get to the vents that had been installed in case something like this happened. Or in case of accidental explosions, known to happen in Q Branch. They were suppose to filter the air. He hoped they hadn't been destroyed in the blast. It felt like it took him a lifetime to get to the switch. Five meters felt like five kilometers. 

Kleio held his breath and prayed to gods that he wasn't sure existed that the vents had held up against the explosion. It was a long moment, but then he could feel the vibrations of the fans coming online. He took a deep breath, before hobbling his way to the nearest fire. Thankfully it was small, and easily dealt with. He moved along the room, taking care of what damage he could. 

When the last of the small fires had been extinguished, Kleio sank down to his haunches. The aches and pains were making themselves known. The constant ringing in his ears was becoming unbearably painful. He needed just a moment. Then he would rally. 

Lin was in front of him, Kleio could see her mouth moving, but couldn't hear a word she was saying to him. He shook his head frantically, trying to clear his ears, but it didn't help. Lin's concerned face began to fade out as Kleio began to hyperventilate. 

The last thing he saw, before fading into oblivion was the flicker of a blowtorch, as somebody began to cut through the safety glass that enclosed Q Branch. 

Several stories above Kleio's location, John was glad he had listened to Sherlock and brought his bag. The bombing of Vauxhall Cross was nothing like a war zone. These were not soldiers he was treating. They were civilians. Civilians with higher clearance then normal, but civilians none the less. He could only tune out the screaming and crying, and focus on the person in front of him. One enterprising secretary had set up a small battle triage area, allowing the doctors and medics on scene to get to the more seriously injured. 

It was bedlam. 

So far the injured out weighed the dead, a small blessing. Each time a sheet covered body was brought from the still smoking building, John's heart clenched. Anxious for Sherlock. Any one of those bodies could belong to his younger brother. 

The brother John had no idea existed until today. Sherlock had been short and concise concerning Kleio. A computer genius who worked for Q Branch, code name R. He had been recruited right out of Oxford, at the age of 15. Mummy Holmes had been positive she was having a girl, and was determined to name her last child after one of the Greek Muses. Sherlock and Mycroft both felt their younger brother had gotten the worst of Mummy's naming whims. 

John was stitching up a rather nasty gash, when Sherlock arrived at his side. “John, we need you.” 

John nodded silently, finishing up the triage, and wrapping a shock blanket around the sobbing man's shoulders. 

“They are trying to get into Q Branch now,” Sherlock's stride was long and brisk. “It goes into automatic lock down in the event of a terrorist attack, so it might take awhile.” 

“Isn't there an override?” John asked, as he dodged a gobsmacked police officer. 

“The only person who knows the override procedure is dead,” Sherlock stated calmly. “Which seems to me rather counter-intuitive if you ask me.” 

John remained silent. 

“Not good?” 

“Not good,” John sighed. “Why are they letting us in, instead of MI6 doctors?”

“You are the only person Mycroft and I trust to treat Kleio if he is injured,” Sherlock stated. “Mycroft's opinion out ranks everybody else's.” 

“No pressure then,” John mumbled and entered the smoking remains of one of the most heavily guarded buildings in the world. He was going to need a holiday after this. Preferably somewhere on a beach, with a never ending supply of alcohol. 

 

Half a world away, James felt old and useless as he watched the telly in that godforsaken bar in paradise. He was used to death and destruction following in his wake, but this was something different. This was something that may have been prevented if only he had been a bit quicker, a bit more deadly. 

Was everybody he knew dead? M, the interfering bitch? Old Q, with his exploding pens? The cute geeky tech in Q Branch with the ever changing eyes? He was going to have to go back, if only to rail at M's grave for her distrust in his ability to get the job done. 

Resurrection was a bitch.


	3. Chapter Three

Kleio wasn't sure what had woken him, other than a feeling that something was off. The bed he was on was too firm. The room too quiet, unnaturally so. The warm fingers wrapped around his wrist were strangely familiar. The young computer programer was irrationally afraid to open his eyes, not ready to face what was coming. Q Branch had been destroyed. Mary was dead. Stu and Lin had been alive and breathing last he knew. Q had been in a budget meeting near M's office when the first explosion had taken place, and Kleio had no idea if his mentor and friend was alive. It was all too much. 

The fingers on his wrist began to beat a soft rhythm, and it took Kleio a moment to realize it was code, Morse code. Sherlock was the only person who would sit next to his bed, and tap out that he knew Kleio was awake and to open his bloody eyes. 

Kleio turned his head and opened his heavy eyes. Sherlock looked exhausted. His already pale skin was wan, and his expressive eyes tired. Sherlock sat there, his scalpel sharp gaze seeing everything. 

Kleio closed his eyes again. He didn't have to ask, he knew. The unnatural silence was too telling. He had been too close to the explosion in Q Branch. If he was lucky, his hearing would come back. Kleio knew the odds of that happening however, and they weren't good. 

Fingers tapping on his wrist, Kleio kept his eyes closed and focused on the message his brother was repeatedly beating against his pulse. 

Don't panic. Think. 

Kleio opened his eyes again. Sherlock was right, he was the youngest member of Q Branch. This was not going to keep him down, damn it. MI6 was where he belonged. There were treatments for cochlear damage. There was still a chance his hearing could return on it's own. Though, the complete silence he was experiencing was not a positive sign. Until then there were things he could do. Kleio could lip read with the best of them, thanks to Sherlock and Mycroft's tutelage as a child. That would help with some situations, but not directing an agent through a mission with only cameras and ear pieces. 

Gadgets were a Q Branch speciality. He could create something that would allow him to do his job. Eye glasses that had a microphone imbedded, code that would transcribe spoken word onto a LED screen in the lens. A throw back to the cold war gadgets Q had so loved. The glasses would have to be thick to accommodate the extras. 

“Can I have a computer,” Kleio asked out loud. He looked inquiringly at Sherlock, when his brother winced. 

“Too loud,” Sherlock spoke slowly, allowing Kleio to acclimate to lip reading. “Try again.” 

“How?” Kleio asked frustrated, “I can't hear myself, you wanker.” 

Sherlock's smile was brilliant. 

Sherlock dragged Kleio's hand to his throat, and began to speak at what the computer programer thought was a normal speaking volume. Suddenly, the vibration against his hand jumped, and Mycroft and an unknown man were rushing through the door. 

John wasn't sure if he should be shocked or amused by what he found in the youngest Holmes' hospital room. Sherlock was shouting bloody murder, but it seemed to be for a purpose. Kleio was awake, and his eyes were locked on Sherlock, his hand pressed to the consulting detective's throat. It took a moment, before John realized that the younger brother wasn't actually trying to choke the life out of his flatmate. God knows he wouldn't have been the first to try. 

Sherlock was attempting to teach Kleio how to moderate his volume. 

Kleio removed his hand from Sherlock's throat, and placed it on his own. “Can I have a glass of water?” The vibrations were too strong. He was speaking too loudly. 

“I need a computer,” he tried again. The vibrations were closer to what he had felt when Sherlock had spoken. “Please.” 

It was going to take practice, but Kleio was going to master this. He was not going to let this keep him from doing his bloody job. Mycroft's hand, grasping his ankle, caught Kleio's attention. “I'm glad you're not wallowing, there isn't time.” 

Kleio nodded, his hand on his throat. “I know. Q?” 

“Dead, I'm sorry Kleio,” Mycroft glanced at the door and back. “M is going to be naming the new Quartermaster today.” 

Kleio nodded, not bothering to hide the tears prickling his eyes, there was little he could hide from his brothers. “The explosion at Vauxhall Cross was a declaration of war, and M can't waste time playing politics.” The programmer thought about the destruction of Q Branch, “where will MI6 be moving, for the time being?” 

“There is talk that you will be moving into the old Churchill Command Center,” Mycroft took the cup of water John was holding, and handed it to his little brother. 

Kleio stared at the strange man in the horrid pullover, before raising his eyebrow at Sherlock. “Oh, that's John, just ignore him.” 

John snorted. “Gee, thanks. I'll just stand in the corner, shall I?” 

Kleio knew his laughter was too loud, but he couldn't be arsed to regulate it. He laughed long and hard, until tears were pricking at his eyes and his stomach hurt. 

“Well I am glad there is something amusing about this ghastly situation,” a strident feminine voice interrupted the moment. Sherlock glared at the woman as his little brother tried to catch his breath. Deductions were like breathing to him, and this women was an open book. Widow. Career focused. Ruthless and willing to do whatever it took to get the job done. This was M. 

“Mycroft,” the woman continued, “I would say it's lovely to see you, but why lie?” 

“It would seem rather trite,” Mycroft bared his teeth in the parody of a smile.  
“I'm sorry to have missed your competency hearing today, M.” 

M's frosty smile was slightly terrifying in John's opinion. This was a lady who would have no compunction in having any of them killed, if it was in the best interest of Queen and Country. 

“Why are you here,” Mycroft continued. “Shouldn't you be thinking on your sins instead?” 

M's already pale face went bone white. 

“Mycroft, will you please try not to antagonize my boss,” Kleio spoke up quietly. “There is a crisis, and it does not help.” 

Sherlock was fiddling with his phone, much to John's consternation. There was no telling Sherlock that mobiles messed with hospital equipment. John watched over his flatmate's shoulder, as a rather disturbing Youtube video played. 

“Well that is a rather pointed message,” Sherlock stated. 

“Quite,” M snapped. “Moving on. With the former Quartermaster dead, R you have been promoted to Q. We expect you in Q Branch tomorrow.” 

“Ma'am,” Q nodded his understanding. 

“What about his injuries?” the doctor in John was horrified by how cavalier everybody was acting. 

“I suspect they will not hinder him,” Mycroft smiled. “They didn't stop him from keeping Q Branch safe until they could be rescued.” 

“Q is a Holmes,” Sherlock stated brusquely. “He'll adapt.” 

John turned away, grumbling under his breath. Bloody MI6, and the stubbornness Holmes brothers. They would be the death of him. “Okay, everybody out. As Kleio's doctor, I need to speak with him in private.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, while Mycroft looked on with a smug expression on his normally dour face. M was already preparing to leave the room, her phone pressed to her ear. 

“I said, get the bloody hell out, while I talk to Q,” John snapped. 

Q smiled as he watched Sherlock leave the room, a sheepish look on his puckish face. Mycroft was frowning, but he too followed the good doctor's orders. 

“Now, what would you prefer I call you, Kleio or Q?” John inquired softly, as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

“Q,” the newly appointed head of Q Branch answered. 

“Okay Q, there are some things you are going to experience.” John winced thinking about it, “headaches, some disorientation when you first stand up, and most likely severe pain if you are in the vicinity of loud, high pitched noises.” 

Q snorted, “is that all?” 

John grinned at the youngest Holmes brother. “That's enough to be getting on with, isn't it?” 

“Quite,” Q remained silent for a moment. “How long before my hearing either comes back or it doesn't?” 

“You'll probably want to talk to a specialist for something like that,” John hedged. 

“Just tell me,” Q pressed on, his voice rising slightly.

“There is a 48 hour time frame,” John spoke quickly, ripping off the metaphorical bandaid. “Of course that is approximate, we'll want to play it by ear.” John winced at the turn of phrase. 

Q laughed, loudly. “I can see why my brother likes you so much.” 

John smiled at Q, “I must say, you are taking this better than I would have.” 

“Adapt or die,” Q shrugged. “Holmes are survivors.” 

“Is there anything you need?” John asked, as a knock sounded on the hospital door. 

“I need a computer,” Q smiled at the doctor. “I need to get to work, if I am going to get anything done tomorrow.” 

“I'll see what I can do,” John turned to watch Sherlock enter the room, a gaudily wrapped gift in his hand. The smile on his flatmate's face was giddy. Sherlock had obviously been to the hospital's gift shop, hopefully he hadn't picked up cigarettes while he was there. 

Sherlock thrusted the box at Q, watching his face carefully. His brother didn't tear through the wrapping paper, he unfolded carefully. Sherlock fought the urge to yell at him to speed it up. Finally, the wrapping paper was dispersed with. Leaving a plain box in Q's hands. With a lack of trepidation, that John found a bit scary, the youngest brother opened the box. 

It was simple and perfect. A large tea mug, with a scrabble tile Q on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading, taking the time to hit the kudo button, subscribe and comment. As always, much love to Ferus37 for the beta read. I do my own britpick so if you guys see something that was missed, please let me know!


	4. Chapter Four

Breaking into M's residence was ridiculously easy. One would think that after the Vauxhall Cross bombing, that MI6 would take a bit more precaution with their fearless leader. Perhaps give her a protective detail, or at least improve her security. James snorted as he helped himself to M's expensive scotch, she still thought she was untouchable, after everything. 

He remained silent as he listened to keys in the door, and sundry being placed on the foyer table. He watched her pour a snifter of brandy. Bond smiled when M finally cottoned on to his presence. If she had been a mark, she would have been dead twice over. 

“Where the hell have you been,” M snapped angrily. 

“Enjoying death,” James replied sardonically. “007 reporting for duty,” he intoned tonelessly. 

He didn't move from his slouch against the window frame, as M flicked the light switch. The last three months had not been kind to the head of MI6. Bond would like to say guilt for her actions had eaten away at M, but he knew better. She felt no guilt and no remorse for the actions she took. The greater good always won, no matter the consequence. 

No matter who died. Regret was unprofessional, after all. 

In the past, betrayal had made James sharper, more deadly. Vesper had proven that. He didn't listen to M's words, he watched her body language. M, like the rest of SIS, was a trained liar, he couldn't put his trust in either. Before he died in Istanbul, Bond had only trusted one person. M had proven that certainty had been misplaced.

Finding out that his flat had been sold and his possession put in storage, was not as perturbing as M had intended. James liked his creature comforts, a bespoke suit, a good bottle of scotch, a fast car; but at the end of the day he couldn't take them with him. He had faced death without them, and came out the other side. Though, James would kill for a bespoke Tom Ford right about now. 

The Savoy was a luxury Bond had not experienced in far too long, yet he could not enjoy it. The bullet in his shoulder ached all the time, he never got relieve. James had been trained to push past pain, to thrive on it. He wasn't able to do that, this time. It made him feel old, used up and washed out. 

Tomorrow's testing was going to be hell. 

In a less posh area of London Q was trying to sort out Sherlock's fridge. In Kleio's opinion, staying with Sherlock was hell on earth. He had no idea how John continued to do so, and remain not only sane, but in good humor. His own flat was being refitted with a security system befitting the Quartermaster. M was taking no chances, which made sense, but did not make this situation any less awkward. The tension between his bright, yet clueless brother and his doctor was thick enough to cut through. One of these days, he was going to come to visit and find them dry humping on the sofa. 

Q had finished up his newest gadget. The gadget that would allow him to work. His hearing had not returned, but Kleio was not going to dwell on it. He had too much to do. Fitting a pair of glasses with microphones was easy enough. It had been difficult finding a setting that was sensitive enough to pick up clear, concise conversation for transcribing, but not so sensitive that Q was overloaded with data. The code for picking up the spoken word, transcribing it onto the glass lens had been cake. It had been the display itself that Q had struggled with. He didn't want an obvious weakness the Alpha males at headquarters could pick up on.

These glasses had to pass for ordinary, boring.

He knew that his age was already going to work against him, and Q did not want to give the Double Os anymore cause to mistrust his abilities. 

Tomorrow would be his biggest challenge. Q would be meeting Bond for the first time since his return. Headquarters had been abuzz with 007's return, though few people had actually seen the man. Moneypenny was probably already planning on tupping him on the nearest desk. Most people thought Bond was an all muscle, no brain trained killer. Kleio knew better though. He was smart and observant. There was a reason James Bond was so damn dangerous, and M's favourite. 

Kleio was going to have to bluff, show a weakness, but not the one that could discredit his career before it began. He would play up his age, and only hope to disguise his hearing impairment. 

If his hearing issue became permanent, Kleio couldn't, nor would he hide it forever. Just long enough to gain a bit of trust. Long enough to get MI6 through this crisis. If Bond wouldn't work with him in the field, then none of the other Double Os would either. That was the killing blow for anybody in Q Branch. 

Now, if only he could keep from chatting the man up. That would be most unbecoming of a Quartermaster. Moneypenny wasn't the only MI6 employee who would love a good tupping from the most infamous womanizer known to the SIS. 

Sherlock perched on the sofa, his toes digging into the fabric as he watched his little brother work at the kitchen table. There was a quirky smile on Kleio's face that confused the detective. What did his brother have to smile about? His promotion was challenging, and a good challenge had always made Kleio happy. That smile was fierce. This smile was different. It was a look similar to the one John would get, when he was attempting to get his leg over one of his many girlfriends. 

Kleio didn't have a girlfriend to get his leg over, or a boyfriend for that matter.

This called for some investigating, the foot work Mycroft loathed so much. Definitely something involving disguises. Sherlock smirked into his templed fingers. This was better than a serial murder. Kleio was infinitely more clever than a common killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading, commenting and hitting the Kudo button! Many thanks, as always, to Ferus37 for the beta work.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note! I did use the dialogue from the museum scene in this bit. I try to avoid straight up yanking dialogue from the movie, but in some cases it is just impossible! 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, commenting and hitting the kudos button! I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Sherlock did not particularly like museums, unless something interesting was happening. Like forged paintings. He liked forged paintings. Though, the people behind them were only ever motivated by greed. The National Gallery was boring, however. Not a single forged painting in sight. Room 34 was only given a cursory pass by most of the patrons. Tourist eager to get on to the more popular National Portrait Gallery. They milled about a few minutes, before moving along. Only one man remained for any length of time. Sitting on a bench, in front of a picture of a ship. What was so interesting about the bloody big ship, Sherlock couldn't say, but the man seemed rather disturbed by it. 

Kleio walked into the room, and Sherlock quickly turned his back to his brother. His disguises could fool anybody, except perhaps his brothers. Kleio looked much more composed than he had when he first entered the National Gallery. None of the nerves that Kleio had been exhibiting earlier were present on his face, or in his body language. John would probably say that the newest Quartermaster was as cool as a cucumber. Sherlock watched his brother out of the corner of his eye, as he sat gingerly on the bench, next to the blond male with the sharp eyes. 

If only he could get closer, so he could hear what they were saying. The acoustics in the National Gallery were horrid for eavesdropping. Kleio was too clever for words, picking such a place for a rendezvous. Sherlock fumed for a bit, before walking to another painting. 

James was aware of the man behind him, strolling from painting to painting. He was an oddity. Most of the patrons of the gallery did not linger in this room, too eager to get to the portraits. Maybe this was the new mysterious Q. Quite a bit younger than his predecessors, but still he had a rather clever aura about him. The bench shifted, as somebody sat down next to him. 

 

Pretty was the first word that came to mind. Too bloody young was James' next thought. He didn't have the time or energy to wine and dine a school boy. No matter how pretty he was. 

“Always makes me feel a bit melancholy.” The boy spoke quietly, as he looked away from the painting, and looked at Bond. “A grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. The inevitability of time, don't you think?” The boy looked down at his hands, paused and took a breath. “What do you see?” 

Bond was already feeling old, and hearing this child throw it in his face was almost too bloody much. “A bloody big ship. Excuse me.” James went to stand up, when a quiet “007” was muttered next to him. 

James sat back down, taking a closer look at the kid. He looked vaguely familiar, though the glasses were throwing him off. He reminded Bond of that cute, geeky tech in Q Branch. Though, that kid hadn't worn glasses, and had been as quiet as a mouse. 

“I'm your new Quartermaster,” the boy continued. No, not boy. Q. The world as James knew it was coming to an end. 

“You must be joking,” Bond stated flatly. 

“Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?” Q smirked, and James felt his gut clench in anticipation. 

“Because you still have spots.” 

“My complexion is hardly relevant,” Q quipped back, his grin not faltering for a moment. 

“Your competence is.” James had a feeling this kid would be frightfully competent. 

“Age is no guarantee of efficiency.” The kid shifted towards him, his eyes earnest, and almost flirtatious. 

“And youth is no guarantee of innovation.” Bond needed to focus on the mission ahead. Yet, he could not help but wonder how innovative this kid would be when it came to sex. He looked rather... bendy. Bond lost the thread of conversation, thinking of the kid in his bed. Something about Earl Grey and pajamas. If James had his way, this Q would never wear the blasted things. He dragged himself back into the conversation in time to hear the Quartermaster refer to him as a trigger to be pulled. 

“Or not pulled. It's hard to know which in your pajamas.” Bond grinned. “Q.” 

Kleio felt his heart soar, as Bond called him Q for the first time. It was as the first step to being accepted by the 00 branch. M could name him Q, and he could work with Q Branch to his heart's content, but if a 00 wouldn't work with him, it was a moot title. “007.” 

Q would be lying, if he didn't say his heart didn't jump a bit when the two of them clasped hands. 

Sherlock sighed, bored. He had gotten the gist of the meeting, as he had moved around the room. The 00 that Kleio had been crushing on for years, saving Queen and Country. Boring. So terribly dull. He thought Kleio would be more interesting. Instead that quirky little grin was about getting his leg over after all. 

Sherlock watched carefully as Kleio left the room. He would give his brother ten minutes, and then get a cab home. The 00 was lingering, the discreet gun case in hand, staring up at the stupid battleship. How do people live with this insufferable boredom? Once Sherlock was out of this place, he would find something interesting to do with his day. Like watch fruit flies. 

James remained seated after Q left the gallery. There was something off about the newest Quartermaster. Bond did not question his abilities. M wouldn't have appointed the kid, if he wasn't capable. But there was definitely something odd. He couldn't quite put his finger on it though. And then there was this guy lingering in the Gallery. The paintings weren't that interesting, which meant there was something fishy. If there was a chance that this guy had something to do with the current situation, Bond couldn't take the chance. 

Though, as he followed the guy through the streets of London, James was beginning to realize that this guy was much too flamboyant to be a spy. His coat was swirling, as he tried and failed to hail a cab, drawing the eyes of several people. The man did not look where he was going, too busy texting on his phone. He did not see the people around him, as his long legs ate up pavement. 

James followed him down an alley, not terribly surprised when the man jabbed his arm into his throat. 

“Why are you following me?” The man hissed at James, much like an offended cat. 

“You tell me,” James laughed outright at the outrage on the man's face. “You were following me first.” 

The man opened his mouth, then closed it. Bond was amused at the pout that actually crossed the man's face. “I wasn't following you.” 

“Then who were you following?” 

“If you must know, my brother was acting oddly, so I was following him.” The man sniffed. “It turns out my brother is a bit of an idiot.” 

Bond rubbed his throat, when the man's forearm let up. “So your brother must be Q then.” 

“And you're a 00,” the man smirked. “For Queen and Country and all that rot.” 

“Well you know who I am, who are you?” Bond laughed, amused by this strange guy. In his line of work, he rarely met somebody who said it like it was. 

“I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. The world's only consulting detective.” 

“What makes you the world's only consulting detective?” Bond asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “And stop calling me 00, my name is Bond. James Bond.” 

“You were an only child, orphaned at a young age. You grew up craving authority, so you joined the armed service. I would say Navy, but it could just as easily be the Army.” Sherlock paused for breath. 

Bond laughed. “You are the middle child, too smart for your own good. You rebelled at a young age, and continue to do so to the frustration of your family.” 

Sherlock stared at James. “Well, I now understand why people get angry when I do that.” 

Sherlock was a bit perplexed by the man leaning against the alley wall, laughing. John would no doubt like him, immensely. Though, he was a bit too handsome for Sherlock's comfort. Probably not the best idea to take him home. Then again, when had Sherlock ever gone by what would be best. 

Doing what would be best, was infinitely more boring. 

Sherlock turned towards the head of the alley, as a black fleet sedan pulled up. He sighed, not surprised. Mycroft always had a sixth sense for sensing Sherlock's boredom. The man himself emerged, his trusty umbrella in hand.

“Haven't you had enough of breaking the National Security Act for one day, Sherlock?” 

“Piss off Mycroft,” Sherlock enunciated. 

“Do grow up,” Mycroft snapped. “007, please excuse my brother, he is a child.” 

James could only stand there and stare, as he watched as the most powerful man in England berated his brother. This was probably the most effective cock block he had ever experienced. It would take a braver man than James, to tangle with the Holmes' family. 

The memory of Q's quirky grin flashed, and James couldn't help but think that it would be worth tangling with Mycroft Holmes, for a chance with the enigmatic Quartermaster. 

But first, he had to save the world. Again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! This is my first foray into the 00Q/Bondlock fandom. Many thanks to Ferus37 for the beta skills. All remaining mistakes are my own.


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